"Watchman of the Dead!" she murmured at last.
Oliver started.
"Two years ago," she went on softly, "I met the second Watchman of the Dead. You are the third. The first was murdered in this forest. His name was Bolivio, and he made silver-mounted saddles and hair-tasseled bridles."
Oliver scarce dared to breathe for fear of breaking the spell that seemed to have come over her. She did not look at him. She continued to gaze into her beloved cañon and at her beloved hills beyond.
"Oh, where shall I begin!" she cried at last. "Where is the beginning? A man would begin at the first, I suppose, but a woman just can't! But I won't be true to the feminine method and begin at the end. I won't be a copy-cat. I'll begin in the middle, anyway."
A smile flickered across her red lips; but still she gazed away from him.
"Two years ago," she said, "I met the dearest man."
Oliver straightened, and lumps shuttled at the hinges of his jaws.
"I was riding White Ann on one of my lonely wanderings through the woods. I met him on the ridge above the Old Ivison Place and the river.
"After that I met him many times, in the forest and elsewhere; and the more I talked with him the more I liked him. He was my idea of a man."